The Slayer Diary
by Nimue Tucker
Summary: Excerpts from Buffy's diary as she feels things, rather than what is seen on screen
1. 5 March 2002

Subject : Slayer Diary  
  
Author: Nimue  
  
Rating: PG 13 (mild sexual content)  
  
Pairing: B/S  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss & CO, just borrowing...  
  
Feedback: Please... but this is my first go, so don't flame me too hard.  
  
Summary: Takes place anywhere in season 6. Will eventually end up where I would like season to end. This is a different perspective - what is written is from Buffy's point of view (hence I = Buffy) and is what she is feeling and thinking rather than what she says and does on screen. Diary dates are not meaningful. Just the dates I wrote the chapter. Hope you like..  
  
The Slayer Diary  
  
March 5, 2002  
  
Comfort is not easy to find. He comes to me at night. Night after night. Word after word. Striking me with thoughts and syllables that cut deeper than any sword. He revels in my torment. Every moment he can spend reminding me of what life should be, never saying it, but unlocking the door to myself and letting all the rawness pour out. Reminding me of what is forbidden, stolen, by virtue of my nature.  
  
I see him everywhere. I see him when he is not there at all. In the night, in my dreams. He is many but only one. My soul. My conscience. My voice.  
  
I despise the site of him because he makes me *feel*, and feeling anything is harder than the numbness I have made. When he is in front of me, I want to make him stop, make him go, wring his beautiful neck. Until I cannot see him, the torture will go on.  
  
But even on the rare, glorious days of solitude, where I walk free of his shadow, and move without his air in my lungs, he comes to me in my sleep. Sometimes, I feel that he is physically there, like he crept into my bedroom, unwelcome, uninvited, and stands next to me, staring. Never speaking, but unlocking the door again. At least when I see him on the street, I can walk away. When he comes to me at night, I cannot make him go. I cannot speak. I lift my hands to push him out, but end up cupping my palm over his handsome cheek. I think to bury my feet in his chest and push him hard to the wall, out the window, out the door. Anywhere but here. But I draw him down to me. He stares, those sparkling, crystal eyes always staring as if stricken by some creature of loveliness. Like he does not really see me, but something better, truer, stronger. I feel his hand on his cheek, his thumb caressing my face with more tenderness than my heart can bear. I feel him speaking to me, but never moving his lips. I hear his voice in my head full of anger and pain. But most of all, love.  
  
For as he is to me, I am to him. Murderer and savior.  
  
His thoughts dance like sparks in my eyes, blinding me to the world, hypnotizing me, willing me to him. I try to break it, but I cannot. I cannot. His hand slides softly down my neck, my bare shoulder, careful not to slide my sheet away. But he never stops staring at me. Never stops begging me just to feel anything again. Even hate. Anything but this cool numbness.  
  
I will the door closed and his eyes well up. Feeling me struggle with myself. Feeling me win. He leans forward and I feel his chiseled cheek pressed so softly to mine, softer than it could possibly be. And the whisper of his breath on my neck. "Please, love, " I hear in that slow, sultry voice, "stop this".  
  
I smell his hair and his skin, his thoughts crashing into that closed door in my mind. He has the key, I just do not want to see it. Do not want to believe it even exists. If he opens it, the pain, the sorrow, and worst of all, the joy, will spill out into the air and break the comfortable nothingness of my existence.  
  
I close my eyes to keep it all in me, for the eyes truly are windows... His lips caress my face. My arms are so tired of holding fast to the door. I hear him speak one last time. " I do love you, Pet.". And the door burst open splattering my resolve like a shotgun shell.  
  
Everything I locked away he let go. It shattered him with the pleasure and the pain of truly knowing. For one moment, he understood. And his compassion took it all and set me free. There was no him anymore, nor was there me. We had been reduced to our most basic selves, then combined into one swirling, raging, beautiful light.  
  
I laid with him, my head on his chest. I could feel my mind collecting all the stray monsters of my emotion and storing them back behind the door. But in the few moments I had left before I stole myself away, as I lay there feeling his hand brushing softly against my back and those beautiful eyes watching me slip away, I felt. I felt desperation, and hurt and helplessness and love. 


	2. 6 March 2002

Subject : Slayer Diary Part 2  
  
Author: Nimue  
  
Rating: PG 13 (mild sexual content)  
  
Pairing: B/S  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss & CO, just borrowing...  
  
Feedback: Please... but this is my first go, so don't flame me too hard.  
  
Summary: Takes place anywhere in season 6. Will eventually end up where I would like season to end. This is a different perspective - what is written is from Buffy's point of view (hence I = Buffy) and is what she is feeling and thinking rather than what she says and does on screen. Diary dates are not meaningful. Just the dates I wrote the chapter. Hope you like..  
  
The Slayer Diary  
  
March 6, 2002  
  
It is all very foggy now. I've no clue where to find the beginning or the end. I am so tired and I cannot help but crying. There is no comfort, not that he could stop the tornado racking my brain, shaking my core. No one can help me. I have been to this place before. I have stood atop this precipice with heaven just above my reach, and hell just below my feet and both sides searching for their lost angel.  
  
I do not want to be here. I do not want to be alone. But I know that I can only rescue myself. There is no white knight, no princess in a tower, no salvation. No redemption. Only the light and the dark and the inescapable trap of my humanity.  
  
He came to me again last night. Solemn and angry and sweet. But even he could not find me. He stood there staring his intense, tender stare, his hands clasped, hanging in front of him as if a mourner by a grave. All in black. I could feel his pity. I could hear his deep, hypnotic voice asking who I was and I *screamed* my name, but he stood still. Not hearing me. Or not hearing what he wanted.  
  
I sat up in my bed, naked except for my sheet, and pleaded with him to hear me, to see me. He shimmered like a ghost, changing from one thing to the next, but it was always him. Always his eyes looking so sad and so furious.  
  
I felt myself jump from the bed, coming at him, so angry that he was there, that he was staring at me but that he would not move. I felt fury, rage, anger, rejection. For the one thing that loved me could not even care anymore.  
  
I jumped at him, striking, and felt myself reeling back against the bed, in shocked surprise. He had not moved. His hands still clasped, his feet planted, his perfect shape as still as a statue. Again and again, I ran at him, wanting to hit him kick him, make him stop...staring.. and every time I fell back, propelled to the start, like running into a barricaded door.  
  
But he never, ever, moved.  
  
I leaned against the bed, gasping for air, trying to muster enough energy to give it another go. Trying to make sense of why he was suddenly untouchable. Why could I not take him away, make him *stop* loving me? Or make him start again. There had to be something. My heart was exploding in my chest and I could not understand if it was from throwing myself against the invisible door, or if it was because I longed, I craved, to make contact. To beat him, or to feel his body near mine, or to let him touch me.  
  
My feet gently padded against the wood floor and I walked to him, dazed,  
  
almost drunk with confusion, stopping inches from his body. I could sense his presence, see him so still in front of me. My hand raised to touch his face, but instead I felt coldness. I felt the clear wall of the cell.  
  
He moved, his hand raising to mine, pressing his palm against the invisible door. It should have be touching mine. It should have been against my skin. But he was stopped a hair's breadth, a whisper, from me. Finger mirroring finger, thumb mirroring thumb. But no heat. Only the cold void.  
  
His head cocked to the side and his eyes softened more. My horror, my  
  
bewilderment, were so much greater than that stare, but I could not break free. His lips never moved, but I could hear that voice. The voice I had known in every world, in every life. In anger and in love, the voice was my familiar. My memories, my frustrations, my desires.  
  
"You built this cage, love, " his voice said softly, "I knew you were  
  
building it all along. I tried to stop it. But you would not let me." I stared wide eyed at his still face, his sparkling eyes, his sad, cocked expression. " I could not save you, Pigeon. And I cannot save you now."  
  
My eyes were wide with horror. I did not need saving! I did not need help. I was the strong one. I was the one who knew, who understood, who helped. I could feel my hand curling into a fist and banging into the door. His eyes shook for a moment, but his hand stayed pressed to it, fingers curling to stop my fist. But he could not stop it, and I could not break free. His eyes closed slowly and he swallowed hard. When they opened, they were wet and his stoic face was beginning to falter.  
  
I looked at him as if I had never seen him before. My eyes locked in his, my stunned horror snaking through his gaze. I knew what was next to come. My anger boiled. The hurt crept into my chest, seizing my lungs. I could feel the hitch in my breath, the oceans of uncried tears crashing against the backs of my eyes.  
  
"You never really believed that I loved you, " I heard from his motionless mouth. "Or you never loved me." And I was silent, my hand pressing again to where his should have been, fingers splayed, trying to grasp something, anything. I did not answer him. Mostly because love was something I was not sure I understood.  
  
"So you locked away your insides, love, and you kept them safe and sound so all you had to do was be." I watched him like a cat sizing up a mouse that was already caught in the trap. His eyes flashing dewy stares, then looking away as if what he sees has turned from beauty to beast.  
  
"You locked it all away until you made this... prison... where everything looks as it should, but there is no one left but you. And the cold."  
  
I opened my mouth but could not speak. I could feel my body quaking. His words could reach me, but his body could not. And my eyes began to fill. He could not even stare at me anymore. He could barely look.  
  
"You chose this, Pigeon. You made the cage. I knew I could set you free. I tried, " he whispered in his mind voice. Even there he choked on the words, " But I failed."  
  
My other hand pressed to the door. The door I had guarded so long in my  
  
mind. Protected like a precious gem when really all along it was a rotting cage.  
  
"Goodbye, my love, " he said, this time speaking to me, his hand pressing hard to the clear, cold door, trying to reach me but realizing there was nothing left to reach. His hand slid down the length of my body. He tapped the coldness with his fist just once, glanced at me with more pain then I think I ever knew, and turned away.  
  
I could feel everything rushing into my head. Every thought, every feeling stampeding through me, my mind rupturing, my breath seizing, my body shaking violently. My lungs were exploding in my chest. My madness had killed me, and my last breath was to be alone and cold and naked. And I had no one else to blame.  
  
I slumped to the floor, hitting it hard, and I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces, splintering my lungs, my skin, my mind, my soul. Shards lodging everywhere. Pieces of the only part of me that was ever real. Breaking my spirit, or setting it free.  
  
As my eyes rolled back into my shattered mind, I heard the walls shattering like glass and the primal scream of 'NO' come out of my mouth as as whisper. I felt myself slipping away. My madness had killed me.  
  
***  
  
In the very back of my shattered mind, in a distant far away place, I could hear his voice. But I was no longer there. I sensed a bustle and heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, in the hall, on my bedroom floor. And his voice. "Love, no. Oh God, No."  
  
And I could see the rag doll body that once was mine being picked up and  
  
laid across his black denim jeans, my head lolling off his lap, just an  
  
empty shell. I could see him slumped over her and hear his broken voice..  
  
"No." 


	3. 7 March 2002

Title: Slayer Diary pt3  
  
Name: Nimue  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Disclaimer: all characters belong to JW, ME, etc...  
  
Feedback:Yes, please  
  
Summary: Part 3 of the diary arc - going toward a season 6 resolutions. Written from the Slayer's perspective and not meant to be what is *seen* on screen, but what is going on inside. (I=Buffy).  
  
Hope you enjoy. Pts 1 and 2 are available if you missed them.  
  
  
  
The Slayer Diary  
  
March 7, 2002  
  
  
  
I stood above myself in silence, my hands clasped in front of me,  
  
my feet planted firmly on the floor. My head was cocked  
  
quizzically. Everything seemed so far away. I could see and hear,  
  
but it all seemed so terribly far away. And I could feel  
  
myself being pulled gently, resisting just to stand there a moment  
  
longer.  
  
My shell was draped across his lap, still and almost peaceful. He  
  
had pulled the sheet from off of the bed and wrapped my  
  
body like a child, but my feet and arms and head lolled awkwardly, dangling just above the floor. His hand was on my face, brushing the tangled, dewy hair from my cheeks. He was rocking  
  
almost imperceptibly, his movements hitching, and I could  
  
see the tears roll off his cheeks and onto my lips. He was  
  
muttering softly " I tried to save you, Pet. Every night I tried."  
  
His words were catching in his throat, choking him, coming out in  
  
awkward bunches. His face was so hurt and so furiously  
  
angry. "Why? Why couldn't you just believe me? Why couldn't you  
  
just... love me? Anything, " and his fist slammed into  
  
the floor with an earth shattering crash. "My life was for you and  
  
you bloody well wouldn't have that, " he continued angrily. "  
  
I may not have been what...you...wanted... but I loved you," he  
  
finished breaking down.  
  
His head dropped, his arms clutching my shoulders, pulling my limp  
  
body into his arms. My shadow self, the watching one,  
  
knelt down beside him, letting my hand tentatively reach for him,  
  
then slowly rest upon his shoulder.  
  
He stopped for a moment, his head turning towards my shadow. He  
  
could not see me, but he felt me. Even after...  
  
everything... he felt me. I slid my palm to his cheek and suddenly  
  
felt his tears and shook feeling his pain. The result of  
  
letting me come crashing down.  
  
I watched his eyes close and knew he could feel my hand. He cradled  
  
his cheek into my palm, sniffing, trying to catch a  
  
scent, a whisper. He was silent now, still clutching my shell to  
  
his chest, gripping her so tightly, his other cheek buried in her  
  
hair.  
  
I leaned toward him, letting my lips press softly against his,  
  
brushing them, feeling their soft familiarity. Tasting his sweat  
  
and  
  
the salt of his tears. I whispered, my lips brushing his with each  
  
word "I believe you, Spike. And I have always loved you."  
  
Then I felt myself extinguish. Gone in a poof of smoke. It was  
  
dark for a long, long time. Dark and quiet and lonely. I was  
  
not cold anymore, but I was frightfully unaware. I could not  
  
remember what happened. I was aware of the pain coursing  
  
through my head, crashing like waves on a rocky shore.  
  
But I felt. Pain, but I felt.  
  
Was I dead? Was I insane? Was I dreaming? Was this some other  
  
reality? It was so dark. And then everything was gone  
  
again.  
  
*****  
  
My eyes flickered open in a frightened stare. I was in bed and it  
  
was dark. I gasped, pulling breath into my lungs, my hands  
  
clutching white-knuckled at the sheets, like coming up from the  
  
bottom of the sea. I could see the brightness of a moon  
  
shadow, but there was only silence. And I felt terror.  
  
I heard a noise and jumped. His boots dragged against the floor as  
  
he pulled himself out of a chair in the darkest corner of  
  
the room and came towards me. I clutched the bed, afraid,  
  
disconcerted, alone. Nothing made sense.  
  
He sat on the edge of the bed, lit by the moon, shimmering and  
  
beautiful and silent. I shied away from him, but he held still,  
  
finally moving to brush the hair from my face with the back of his  
  
hand. My emotions flooded back, the dam breaking, tears  
  
streaming in silent silvery rivers. He pulled me to him, burying  
  
his face in my hair and I held onto him, clutching around his  
  
chest.  
  
"Maybe I could save you this time, Love. If you will let me." 


End file.
